


(if you love it) set it free

by jdphoenix



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 00:30:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6031546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most of the things Grant steals from cabins aren't missed. Most, but not all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(if you love it) set it free

“That’s my book.”

Grant nearly jumps out of his skin and the book falls to the ground, completely forgotten. He scrambles to his feet, thinking that he’s an idiot for leaving the gun John left behind last time he visited in the tent and that the hunting knife at his side will have to do and also where the hell is Buddy? He’s supposed to keep watch for people.

He gets his answer when he finally looks at the intruder. It’s a girl, about the same age he was when John first brought him here, maybe younger, and Buddy’s sitting at her side, watching Grant quizzically like  _he’s_ the one acting out of character.

The girl falls back a half-step at the sight of the knife, but her lips thin into a determined line and she repeats, “That’s my book,” a little more meanly this time, causing her British accent to thicken.

“That’s my dog,” Grant says and whistles for good measure. Buddy comes running, and he must’ve been sticking close to the girl because she nearly falls when he sets off for Grant.

Grant keeps one eye on her while he tousles Buddy’s ears, which is a hell of a lot harder when he sees the daisy chain around Buddy’s neck. What the hell?

“We thought he was abandoned.” The girl must not be too worried about Grant and his knife because she’s stepped out of the trees and started examining his camp curiously.

“Well, he’s not,” Grant says so gruffly that Buddy whines. Grant scratches under his jaw. “‘We’?” he asks after a beat.

She shoots him a glance. “He wandered up to our cabin and my uncle said someone had probably left him behind - either because he got lost or because they just forgot him.”

“Like a book?” He’s not sure why he’s teasing her, but he knows he smiles when she glares.

“Yes. Like a book. Which I would like back, please.” She marches across the camp to hold out her hand. Her chin’s lifted but she’s so short she doesn’t quite manage to look down her nose at him.

Grant’s gotta bite his lip to keep from laughing at her. She’s five-foot-nothing and doesn’t seem to have any idea how stupid every move she’s made so far has been. Even if she wasn’t talking to a complete stranger - one who lives off stolen supplies in the wild - she’s way off the beaten path. If she followed Buddy out here, she easily could’ve gotten lost this deep in the woods and never made it home.

“Finders keepers,” he says.

“You _stole_ it,” she snaps back. She throws an arm out to take in the rest of the camp. “How much of the rest of this did you steal from other cabins? Did- Are you-” She spins on the spot, brow wrinkling as she considers.

Maybe now is the moment she’s gonna realize how much danger she’s in here - not that Grant’s gonna _do_ anything to her, but if he had fewer morals? If he was Christian? He pushes those thoughts away and focuses on how he’s gonna reassure her she’s safe.

She spins back around to face him, but she’s not scared, she’s _concerned_. “Are you running away from something?” she asks, voice pitched soft and gentle. She even takes a step closer, like she’s gonna comfort him or something.

Grant shrugs. He is, kinda, but he’s _here_ because John’s training him, making him into the sort of agent HYDRA will want, someone strong enough that he won’t have to run and hide from anything. He can’t exactly say that to this random girl though.

“Do you need help? I mean-” She looks back the way she came. Actually, she looks about five feet to the right of the way she came.

“No,” Grant says heavily, “but _you_ do. Do you even have a compass?”

She steps back again. “I can find my way. It wasn’t far.”

“Uh huh.” He grabs his pack, the one he always keeps on him in case he’s gotta spend the night somewhere other than here, and then her arm to tug her with him.

“I told you! I remember the way!”

“No, you don’t.”

She tries to pull free. “I’ll have you know, I’m smarter than I look. I’m more than capable of finding my way back to the lake.”

“Okay, one: the lake is huge, and two-” He pulls them to a stop and makes her face him- “which way?”

“What?” she asks, glancing to Buddy, who’s plopped down between them and is wagging his tail like he’s expecting a piece of squirrel meat.

“You said you know the way. So where do we go, princess?”

She jerks her arm out of his grasp, glaring at the nickname. She looks determinedly at the trees, first scanning more or less in the right direction but getting farther and farther from it as her expression falls. Finally she’s looking back towards camp; makes sense, that’s the view she recognizes, but unfortunately it doesn’t give her any idea which way to go from here except _not that one_.

“You have no idea where to go, do you?” he asks, trying to be gentle.

“I wouldn’t say it precisely that way,” she mutters. “I know not to go _that_ way.” She gestures towards camp.

He chuckles and starts off again. Buddy gallops ahead, sniffing at everything, and the girl falls in behind, loud enough he can easily tell she’s following. “Don’t feel bad,” he calls over his shoulder. “Lots of people get lost in these woods, that’s why they warn you not to leave the hiking trails.”

“You know all about that, do you?” she asks, sounding a little too curious for Grant’s taste. He forges on ahead.

It’s not long before they’re both breathing too heavily to bother with talking. The trip down to the lake isn’t too long - short enough Grant can hit half a dozen cabins on a good day in the off-season - but it’s tough. Without hikers keeping up trails, there’s only the ones Grant makes himself and those are overgrown fast. Plus, he’s not taking her his usual route; they veer off halfway there so he can dump her right at her cabin instead of having her wandering around the lakeside trying to find the way home.

All in all, by the time he lays eyes on her place, they’re both sweaty and tired and even Buddy’s ready for a long rest.

“Home sweet home,” Grant says, holding aside a branch so she can see.

“Thank you,” she says sincerely. She sighs. “You were right, I doubt I could have made it on my own.”

“You couldn’t have.”

She frowns at him and stoops to scratch Buddy. He expects her to run off, but she doesn’t make a move for the rocks that are the best way down from here.

“I’m Jemma,” she says and holds out a hand.

He hesitates, but only a second. There’s something about her that’s just _trustworthy_ \- and maybe John’d scoff, but Grant knows there are good people in the world; John’s proof of that himself.

“Grant, and that’s Buddy.”

“Nice to meet you, Grant,” she says. Her hand is warm from the exertion. It’s been a long time since he touched anything so soft. “And you too, Buddy. Thank you for helping me find my way and-” She looks towards the cabin. “If you do need help-”

Grant walks away. He doesn’t have time for pity. Buddy follows after a few seconds.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Carrie’s out on the lake again with those McKinley boys and for the first time Jemma’s grateful not to have been invited because today Uncle Jack is out on the lake too, his canoe circling around far too often for anyone’s liking. It’s actually quite entertaining watching from the hillside and seeing just how quickly Alec McKinley’s hand can leave Carrie’s thigh.

“What the hell is this?”

Jemma tears her eyes from the scene on the lake and half-turns in the grass to see Buddy loping down the hill towards her. “Hello, handsome,” she says, running her hands along his ribs and down to his belly. His tongue is wet and rough on her cheek and his tail bangs the ground in a way she’s certain must be painful.

“Thanks,” Grant says and, before she can correct his purposeful misconception, adds, “but seriously, what the hell?” He tosses the old duffel bag he’s carrying next to her and plops himself on the other side of it.

She pats Buddy fondly and faces the lake again. “It’s a thank you.” She left the bag of supplies where he left her the other day, hoping he might pass by again and discover it. It’s nothing special - only a few canned goods that won’t be missed, a bag of Aunt Helen’s trail mix, that sweater Uncle Jack pretends not to hate, and the next Harry Potter book, which he’ll surely want once he’s finished the stolen one - just a few things to let him know how grateful she is for the rescue.

“I said I didn’t need help.”

“That doesn’t mean you couldn’t use some.” She wraps her arms around her legs and rests her head on her knees so she can more comfortably observe him. She’s always been drawn to strong profiles and his is certainly impressive - for a wild man living in the woods. Not that he’s much of a man, he can’t be more than a few years older than her, the same age as most of her peers at university.

He rolls his eyes. “Listen, princess-”

“Don’t call me that.” The reaction is automatic. She often hears the nickname on these yearly visits with her American relatives. None of them are so crass as to use it, but strangers often do - especially ones who are many years her senior with smiles far too wide - when they hear her speak. She does hope the Academy will be different when she starts there this fall, but she’s bracing herself for the work.

“I don’t need saving, _princess_.”

Now it’s her turn to roll her eyes and she drops her legs back to the grass so she can look out at the lake. Uncle Jack is making another pass of the artificial island all the cool kids congregate on.

“If you’re going to call me anything, it should be ‘doctor.’”

“Oh? That’s what your planning to be?”

She hesitates. This is the moment when people’s opinions of her change. Two years ago, the last time she came on this trip, she was still welcomed onto the island with all the other teenagers, this year she’s … not. Grant is strange and dangerous and she likely shouldn’t be talking to him at all, but she likes him and he’s nice to her and she’d rather he not get scared off.

But - and sometimes she does hate having standards - she refuses to be someone she’s not, even if it means having no friends. (That this is why she’s sitting on the hillside, watching all the fun from afar, does not escape her notice even as she holds her ground.)

“I am one. Not a medical doctor - but I have PhDs in biology and chemistry. I achieved the former only last month,” she adds, both because her excitement hasn’t entirely worn off and in hopes it will ease the blow.

She sneaks a peek at Grant.

“How old are you?” he asks, frowning.

“Seventeen.”

“Wow.” That does tend to be the usual reaction. “And you wandered into the woods on your own? I’m feeling less bad about being a drop out.” That … is not the usual reaction.

“I wasn’t _alone_ ,” she says quickly. “I had Buddy.” The dog has wandered down the hill to where little Holly’s playing in the grass and she’s making him another of those daisy chains while his head rests in her lap.

“Yeah, a dog you didn’t even know. Real smart.” Grant’s leaning back, his head tipped up towards the sun. The bright light brings out all the frayed edges and faded patches on his clothes, highlights how nothing quite fits the way it should.

“How old is Buddy?” she asks. She’s never had a dog, but he certainly doesn’t have a puppy’s over-exuberance; how many years has he been out here with Grant?

Grant’s posture doesn’t change but he holds himself more stiffly than before. “I dunno,” he says carefully.

“What will you do without him?”

He pushes up, leans forward so she can only see a third of his face. He shrugs the same way he did when she asked if he was running away from something.

“Maybe,” she says slowly, “he’d like to live somewhere … gentler? Somewhere a little easier on him? Like a house?”

Grant throws her a grin. “Buddy likes it out here.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but he’s already standing. He whistles and Buddy comes running, leaving a half-made daisy chain trailing behind him.

“See ya, princess.”

Jemma turns to watch man and dog disappear into the woods. At least he took the bag.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Grant thinks about that day on the hillside while John walks away, leaving him alone with Buddy and a gun. It was almost a month ago but the image of Buddy with his head in Jemma’s little cousin’s lap is practically painted on the inside of his eyelids now.

He’s been back to the lake a lot since then, more than he should since he kinda stands out, and while he aims the pistol at Buddy (who doesn’t even _blink_ , just stares up at him with those big, puppy dog eyes) he sees Jemma playing with him. Sometimes Grant thinks she likes his dog more than him, but then she looks his way and she’s got this smile that’s just for him…

Fuck. He’s smiling just thinking about it. Which is its own problem, but one that’s gonna go away as soon as he - how did John say it? - _takes care_ of Buddy.

Grant feels sick.

He sits heavily on his ass and Buddy’s quick to climb over him, sniff at his face and neck to see if he’s all right.

“Yeah, yeah, you idiot, I’m fine.”

It’s not that he doesn’t understand what John’s doing. The life Grant’s signing up for, it’s tough. It’s not just the lying to everyone about his true loyalties, it’s the work itself. If he’s gonna go out and spy on people - people he might one day have to kill - he can’t afford to get attached to them the way he is to Buddy. And to Jemma.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t let them go.

Taking her home was necessary, he can’t afford to have search parties crawling all over his woods, but going back? That was crossing a line. And he’s willingly crossed it nearly every day since. He snuck into her cabin two weeks in to find out when she’s leaving and he’s been counting down the days ever since. Because savoring the time he’s got with her doesn’t mean he can’t let her go in the end.

And that’s what this test is about, right? Letting go.

It takes a little digging in his pack and a little rushed work - he wishes he could take his time but John’s waiting and Grant doesn’t like the idea of him thinking he’s crying over his dumb dog out here - but in the end he fires the pistol and then, for good measure, the rifle. And it’s done.

John slaps him on the back when he comes walking back into camp and some of Grant’s lingering tension eases. They head for the truck and John’s already halfway through a story Grant’s heard twice already by the time they’re on their way.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“This had better be one hell of a plan you’ve got,” Skye whispers as the cargo ramp lowers.

“Well, it’s better than taking us all to a bar and allowing Agents Ward and May to drink away their baser impulses.” Which, for the record, doesn’t seem a sound plan in the slightest and Coulson surely knew that, as he was overjoyed with Jemma’s suggestion that they land the Bus somewhere a little more remote for the night.

“I just mean Ward is seriously off his game ever since he touched that staff,” Skye says, watching the subject of their conversation warily to ensure he’s not listening. As he’s in discussion with Randolph, Jemma doubts he has the attention for them.

“It’s not that bad. He fought off the extremists.” She heads down the ramp, grateful that the timing allows her to do so without notice.

“Yeah, because the fighting is the problem,” Skye mutters, trailing behind her. “I meant he’s got even less personality than when I first met him. He’s totally monosyllabic with me, he won’t even _talk_ to Fitz, and have you noticed he hasn’t called you ‘princess’ all day? Which, yeah, is probably a good thing because it was kind of dickish, but still. He’s like toast.”

“Toast?” Jemma asks.

“Bland and dry,” Skye explains and Jemma almost misses it because she’s suddenly been tackle-hugged.

A high-pitched squealing sounds directly in her ear and surely she’d go deaf if it lasted a few seconds longer, but Holly’s always had a good sense about when to cut off her overzealous behaviors.

“You’re here!” Holly says, bouncing on her toes and holding Jemma at arm’s length.

“Yes,” Jemma says, holding her forearms tight in a futile attempt at holding her still. “I did call and ask if we could come.”

Skye is staring, wide-eyed, and leans in a little to ask, “So you know this hug-person?”

“Skye,” Jemma says slowly, “this is my cousin, Holly. Her husband’s family has owned this farm for generations.”

The farm looks, from the glimpse Jemma gets of it, precisely like the pictures. There’s only time for a brief glimpse however, because there’s a tingling awareness running up her spine, one she’s come to know all too well the last few weeks. She turns just in time for Grant’s hand to settle on the base of her spine as he steps up beside her.

“Everything okay here?” he asks, tension radiating from every pore.

Jemma turns swiftly to Holly to reassure her that Grant is perfectly safe, but her cousin’s wide eyes don’t appear to be from fear. She’s utterly failing at holding back a smile, which she turns on Jemma.

Drat. She rather worried Holly might recognize him.

“Where are they?” Jemma asks, figuring they might as well get to the point of this stop-over.

“We are gonna _talk_ ,” Holly says. Jemma gives her the look that never failed to have her pouting and doing as she was told as a child, but there’s no pouting now. Holly only smiles slyly and lets out an ear-piercing whistle.

In its wake is a brief moment of silence, followed by a slowly building clamber of canine voices as a litter of puppies no more than eight weeks old come racing from the farmhouse. A few dare to jump over the one fence barring their way, but most easily dart under it and in a few moments everyone is ankle-deep in Labradors.

In the time it takes Jemma to bend and pick one up, Skye’s disappeared, running into the Bus to tell Fitz to “get his butt out here _right now_.” Jemma hands over the Chocolate Lab to Grant, who’s staring like the puppy is the greatest thing he’s ever seen.

“Buddy’s - grandpuppy?” she says, directing the question at Holly.

“Great-grandpuppies,” Holly says and disappears to keep the pups who have climbed the ramp from biting poor Randolph’s shoes.

Grant cradles the dog to his chest and some of the tension that’s been present in his shoulders for hours now eases. They’ve never talked about that summer, though Jemma’s often thought about apologizing. Knowing he’s an agent has completely changed her perspective of those events. Of _course_ he wasn’t supposed to take assistance from vacationers; he was probably out there on an extended training exercise. And, until she learns otherwise, she is choosing to blame his very sudden departure - and his hasty message to take care of Buddy, scrawled on a torn out page of _Order of the Phoenix_ (practically blasphemy!) - on that as well.

She still hasn’t worked up the courage to broach the subject - though she imagines, from the look on her face, Holly will force her hand - but she thinks this might go a ways to making amends for how she mussed up his training.

“I thought,” she says, scratching the ears of Grant’s puppy, “that dogs might help. Petting them is said to cause a natural release of endorphins.”

The puppy licks Grant’s face and he smiles for the first time in far too long, looking for a moment more like the boy she knew on the lake than the agent he is now. “It helps a lot.”

 


End file.
